The Minimalist
by McMonster
Summary: John comes home one day to find that Sherlock has taken Spring Cleaning to a new level. Slight slash.


**_This is my very first fanfic! I love BBC's Sherlock and wanted to write something to contribute to the fandom. I hope you like it! Rating and reviewing will win you my eternal love. The minimalist _**

As John Watson had learned, Sherlock Holmes was dangerous when without a case. Usually during these stretches of time John knew better than to leave him alone, but even the virtuous doctor could only babysit for so long. When his flatmate was absorbed in daytime telly or muttering darkly to the skull he insisted on keeping on the mantle and seemed unlikely to be of direct harm to London, John would try to steal a few moments for himself.

After they had been living together for some time, John began to notice that during the weeks when they were alone Sherlock became attuned to a kind of schedule. After about a day without Lestrade contacting him, Sherlock would stare absentmindedly out the sitting room window for hours at a time. He wouldn't eat or drink anything, or even glance at John. Sometimes his position would change – in the morning he would be standing against the fireplace, but when John came home from work he would be sitting in the red chair, for example – but his lips would be frozen in a bemused smile, as if he was baffled by his own brilliance. After this had gone on for two or three days he changed gears. Snatching up his violin, he would make a show of tucking the instrument under his chin and adjusting his arms for a full range of motion. If John was in the room at this point Sherlock would flash him a conspicuous smile, touch his bow to the strings, close his eyes, and play every song he knew so loudly that Mrs. Hudson had threatened to kick him out on more than one occasion. After he had played everything from memory, he would compose on the spot. John loved watching Sherlock when he did this, as it was like a rare glimpse into the detective's mind. Whatever he was thinking or feeling went right up into his fingers, coming out in strange and beautiful note patterns. If their case had been a particularly dangerous one and John's life had been called into question, Sherlock played deep, mournful songs, with light tones of happiness weaving throughout the melody. The songs always seemed to say, "I'm sorry that I put you through that, but I'm really glad you're okay." It was the only recognition John expected to get, even though he would never admit that he longed for the day when the music would take a more romantic turn.

It was after Sherlock finished with his violin – usually around the fifth day – that John could leave the flat. During this time he would read absentmindedly or, if John was lucky, sleep. Usually when Sherlock slept he did so for the better part of two or three days. John was counting on one such nap the day he went to the park to update his blog.

At least, John had been planning on adding to his website. He had sat down in the shade of a large tree and tried to think of something interesting to post, but his mind was occupied with nothing but Sherlock.

_Sherlock takes two sugars in his tea._ John shook his head and quickly erased it. He couldn't afford to think that way about his flatmate. He tried to think of something good, but quickly gave up; deciding to type whatever came into his head as he thought it. A writing exercise, he told himself.

_Sherlock blow-dries his hair._

_Sherlock is allergic to cats._

_Sherlock always remembers birthdays, even if he acts like he can't be bothered._

_Sherlock once tried to iron a shirt while he was wearing it._

John's fingers hesitated above the keys of his laptop. He took a breath before typing;

_Sherlock is amazing._

The army doctor paused before erasing the last sentence. Even if he wasn't supposed to think about Sherlock romantically or delude himself into thinking that the other man felt attracted to John in any way, it had to be a written fact in some book that Sherlock Holmes was extraordinary.

Obviously, he hadn't planned on falling in love with his flatmate. He had clear rules for himself, and one of the biggest was to never fall for someone he couldn't afford to lose. John wasn't even gay. He wasn't normally attracted to men, and he still continued to date women. Yet, it seemed that his life had taken a very distinct twist the day he met the detective: he found himself being braver, bolder, more alive, and a thousand times happier than he had ever been without Sherlock. He had read once that almost everyone has an "exception" when it comes to love; a person that they could have never pictured themselves needing. John supposed Sherlock was his exception. In no kind of relationship had John made the tremendous sacrifices he made for his friend; and never before had he been so glad to do it, even to give more of himself to the man who largely ignored him. Even though Sherlock had hinted at being gay, their romantic chances were slim. Still, how could John give up on the man who had recalled him to life?

Shaking his head and smiling, John packed his laptop in its case and started the walk home. He loved walking, even when he didn't know where he was going. He liked the idea that he could ignore everything around him and just keep walk away from his dangerous life, his unsatisfying relationships, and the heartache that awaited him at 221 B Baker Street. Before long, however, he would be forced to remember that he was going away from Sherlock, and a dull pull at his heart would remind him of where he was meant to be.

Walking up the steps to the flat, John felt a strange sense of calm. All was quiet, so hopefully Sherlock was sleeping. For the briefest of seconds he pictured Sherlock curled up on the largest couch in a robe, one arm thrown over his curly head and his gorgeous mouth slightly open. John laughed to himself and quietly opened the door.

He gasped, his shoulders hunching and knees buckling. Words seemed to escape him. John slammed the door closed, and slowly opened it again, praying that when he did the flat would be back to normal. It wasn't.

Everything – _everything_ in 221 B Baker Street was gone. It was like a giant had shook the flat and everything not nailed down had fallen out. The couches, the tables, the books and papers had all disappeared to be replaced with a grinning Sherlock, standing in the center of the room. The man's arms were thrown wide, his smile brilliant. He was obviously pleased with himself, and expected the same admiration from his friend.

John dropped his bag on the ground and ran at Sherlock. Grabbing his blazer, he pulled the detective close and, in a rush of anger, slapped him. The amazement that filled Sherlock's face was almost comical. John, who was now running through the other rooms in the flat and finding them equally empty, was too occupied to care. At the moment, he had much bigger things to worry about. Where all of his worldly possessions had gone, for instance.

"_Sherlooooock_!" John yelled, his voice rising in pitch as he drew the name out. "What have you done?"

The taller man furrowed his brow. "Spring cleaning," he crisply replied. "I believe you discussed its necessity with Mrs. Hudson."

"Not . . . no . . . Sherlock . . ." It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. At this point John would have liked to sit down, but his furniture was absent. He opened his mouth to admonish Sherlock, but couldn't speak through his tightened throat. Blinking patiently, the detective waited for him to continue.

"I was only gone for two hours," he finally managed. "Where did it all _go_?"

Sherlock stood perfectly still, his thoughts racing. He could tell John the truth and risk further hysterics or make something up. The latter idea was immediately dismissed; John would see the ploy to cheer him and it would only serve to promote his anxiety. Finally the detective decided upon a new tactic: optimism.

"We could redecorate . . ." he said softly. John only started at him.

"I honestly cannot believe what goes on in that head of yours," John said some hours later. He was sitting cross-legged on the wood floor with a Chinese takeout carton and a plastic fork. "We don't even have a table."

"Who needs tables? Useless tables. We have a floor, John!" The consulting detective sat a ways away from John, leaning against the wall, his long legs straight in front of him. Clearly no one had ever taught Sherlock that being overly optimistic was a good way to get punched. John wouldn't have minded teaching him by example. He frowned. Looking at Sherlock, bathed in moonlight and delicately eating a dumpling had him thinking of his soft bed – another piece of the flat that had been disposed of.

"Where are we going to sleep, Sherlock?"

For the first time in nearly six hours the perfect serenity of Sherlock's thin face was broken by confusion. "What do you mean?" He eventually asked.

"Sleep, Sherlock. What normal people do when they get tired."

He sighed, knitting his fingers together and sliding forward until he was nearly folded in half. Eventually he asked, "Do you really need to sleep tonight?"

"Yes."

Sherlock sighed. "How opposed are you to barrowing blankets from Mrs. Hudson and camping out here?"

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" He said, already rising to fetch them.

"No, not really."

"I can't believe you," John spat as he stormed downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's place.

Love really was a strange thing, John later mused as he lay awake on the hard floor at some ungodly hour. If anyone else had literally taken everything from him but the clothes on his back (plus a very nice laptop), they would have been hanging from the ceiling fan by now. But Sherlock was already being forgiven. He had the oddest hold on John, and the doctor couldn't justify being cross with him for any substantial length of time. Pushover or not, John was a sucker for a pretty face. He turned to look at Sherlock, who was soundly asleep a few feet away from him. The other man's face was calm and quiet. His dark hair fell into his slack face and his mouth was open slightly, his body curling towards John. He stirred under his thin blanket. One slender white hand reached out, seeking warmth. John hesitantly reached out for him before stopping a few inches from Sherlock's skin. What if he woke up at the unfamiliar touch? That would present too many awkward questions. He could do nothing but stare for what felt like days while he got up the courage to touch his flatmate.

The reactions in both of them were instant. John fell into a dreamy shock, reveling at the softness of the detective's hand and the electric pulse that ran through him. Perhaps Sherlock felt it even in sleep, because his unconscious form rolled closer to John, nearly pressing against him. John's breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, feeling Sherlock's delicious heat next to him, his fingers still resting lightly on his wrist.

Many hours later, Sherlock woke to the sound of police sirens in the streets of London. He was startled, but didn't stir. He didn't think he could; his arms didn't seem to be working correctly. Flexing slightly proved that his limbs were pressed to his sides by another person. Wondering who was spooning him at 3:19 in the morning would have been pointless. Only one other person was in the flat.

Sherlock didn't move and didn't go back to sleep that night. He told himself that he didn't want to wake John.

**_Hope that was as fun for you to read as it was for me to write! Rating and reviewing will win you my eternal love!_**


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